Archive for October 2011

This Halloween (that is, today, October 31, 2011) is the estimated birthday, according to the U.N.‘s Population Fund, of the world’s 7 billionth person.

I love babies, and a lot of the news stories on this subject has shown some very cute ones (as well as some slightly less cute red squiggly ones.) Even so, the number is kind of frightening. It is a number that is significantly more than twice the world population in the year of my birth. (And, though I often feel antediluvian, I’m not truly.)

There are some (particular those who oppose birth control) who feel that those who are concerned about these escalating numbers are selfish, anti-human, anti-life.

In my view, the opposite is true. Yes, I admit that I do like the notion of a world that still contains empty spaces, that still allows people the possibility of moments of solitude, that does not use all its resources in energy and food production, that is not cut up into little tiny squares.

But I am also worried (as I think many are) that if humans don’t try to exert some kindly control over population, natural forces will exert more drastic controls–famine, disaster, war, disease.

This is a post (1001th – an apology to those who subscribe) made for Tess Kincaid’s Magpie Tales. Each week Tess posts an interesting photograph as a prompt. The above is my personal take on the photo–I’ve revised it a bit to fit in with the poem below, a sonnet of sorts.

No Nest

These words are no nest. They won’t warm you
when I’m gone. You won’t be able to tuck
your head under a t, though it starts true,
slip fingers down n‘s curve, deftly pluck
replies from even the unsilent e‘s.
They won’t warm me either–no echoes
in ashen brains, though spread upon a breeze.
As twigs and hair and grass and dust close in,
words will be somewhere else; just as what peeps
behind these eyes, this voice, this flickering
insistent maw of self, will, at best, sleep
long. But for now, I’m here, a bickering
steadfast word monger, building a place
of syllabic lingering, would-be embrace.

My husband tells me it’s an opportunity for great story telling. I can alarm people with tales of “you should have seen the other guy” i.e. him.

The fact is that I was attacked by an apple. Maybe I should say “counter-attacked”–I was, at the time, prodding the tree with a stick. (Yes, there was also occasional whacking, but the word “throttling” is definitely not appropriate.)

Snow was coming. The tree was still laden. But the apples were too high to be picked on branches too high to be shaken. Hence, the stick, hence, the prodding, hence the face turned straight up to the potentially falling fruit.

Whack!

One hit my eye socket with a force that would have shocked even Newton. The eye itself was covered by a lens which may have been good for the retina, less so for the upper and lower lids, which were–and here the word may be appropriate–throttled.

Ouch.

Oh, you, you apple of my eye–I think I’ll have you baked.

(P.S. This is my 1000th post on this blog. I’m not sure what that means exactly, other than that I seem to have had a fair amount of spare time on my hands over the last couple of years. Still, it does feel like a bit of a landmark, particularly in light of Nanowrimo -National Novel Writing Month- about to begin. Hmmm…..)

dVerse Poets Pub has a poetics challenge today, hosted by the wonderful Claudia Schoenfeld (who lives in Germany but writes beautiful poetry in English) asking for a “call and response” or conversation poem.

The poem below is a conversation in which one person speaks in words, the other gestures. it’s a pretty grim poem, sorry. (Please remember it’s a poem, i.e. work of art! ) Also note that, although it rhymes and has line breaks, pauses should really only be taken where punctuated and not at the end of a line.

No Good Answer

She took a brush and hit her hand,
trying hard to make a stand.

“Just go,” he sighed,
“it’s just not working.
You’ve got to know
I’m not just jerking
you around.
No, it’s just the way I am is all,
I’m not the one for you at all.”

She stuck a tack into her wrist,
showing him a bloodied fist.

He shuddered, turned aside his head,
“It’s time for me to go to bed,”
then left her for their one spare room,
while she sat on beneath a gloom
of fear
that she would stop the pain
so that it would not come again.

But she was frozen, could not move,
luckily, perhaps, since all self-love
had vanished
just as his had done,
not to be found under moon or sun.

Hit, it still had flight in its front legs. The man dragged it by its antlers off the road, crouched on its neck with a knife. It bled in dark gulps, still tried to rear, roared. He laid the hand not pressing it down upon its shoulder, as if to calm, as if touch could.

This is my 55 word story (not including title!) for the G-Man. (Thanks, Mr. Knowitall, for the incentive to compress this scene.)